An Honourable Murderer (14 page)

The two Peaces, the English and Spanish ladies, were standing patiently side by side. Hope and Resolution had banished Suspicion, Rumour and the rest of us to the corners of the stage. There we cowered.

The green-garbed Hope waved her garland of flowers in the air and gazed expectantly upwards.

Resolution, or Lord Fortune, looked suitably determined while he delivered his couplet:

Come down, O Truth, and show the eyes of man
The gods' design and heaven's chiefest plan.

I glanced up into the dark area above the stage. I thought I could glimpse the chair in which Truth was due to ride down but it was hard to see if it was occupied or not.

I looked round at my immediate companions. There was Abel Glaze dressed as Rumour in an outfit painted with tongues and ears. Laurence Savage as Fright sported a gold helmet and carried a short sword, although from his posture it would have been difficult to say whether he was meant to be frightened or frightening. Then there was Jack Wilson dressed up as Stubbornness in a gown on which were depicted coils of ivy (to show that Stubbornness takes hold of the mind and pulls it down, as ivy does a wall – I said that these masque costumes were like walking riddles). Meantime, as Ignorance, I was garbed in a costume that was black and rather rustic. I wore a kind of blindfold that was very gauzy and easy to see through.

The parts we were playing, and the costumes we were wearing, might have been designed by Bartholomew Ridd to make us look silly. But not much sillier than our noble patrons parading about as Hope or Peace or Truth.

And talking of Truth, where was he?

The band of musicians, cued by Ben Jonson, had already played – already played twice over – the flourish which was to herald the descent of the
deus ex machina
. I glanced up once more.

At last the chair was on its way down. It was no longer the plain item which I'd ridden in, but decked out with gold hangings and surmounted with a sunburst device. Even the cables which supported it were concealed with green and gold ribbon. It was a flying throne. From our corner at the edge of the stage I could make out only the legs of the occupant of the chair. I wondered if Sir Philip was as apprehensive about the descent as I had been. That was unlikely. He'd seemed quite at home in the ‘heavens'.

And now the music was tootling in triumph. The figures of Hope and Resolution were moving to positions on either side of Truth's landing-point. We naughty characters cast our hands over our eyes or shrank into ourselves, to show the conquering authority of this figure from the sky.

Then all at once the chair quivered and came to a halt. As far as I could tell, it was stuck at a point even higher from the ground than when I'd ridden in it during practice. Well, this was still a rehearsal. They'd get it working properly for the real thing. I imagined Jonathan Snell the younger frantically checking the pulleys up above, tugging at cords and cables. No doubt he'd receive a dressing-down from his father afterwards. Not enough soap on the ropes, maybe.

The chair swayed slightly. Jonson shushed the musicians. Perhaps he could observe something from his position out in front which wasn't apparent to us.

I saw the face of Sir Philip Blake peering out and down. If he hadn't been alarmed before, he certainly looked so now. His mouth was a gaping O. His face was white against the elaborate sunburst that crowned the seat. Something was wrong. A silence suddenly fell over the entire room.

This flying chair was the crowning effect of the
Masque of Peace
. Running smoothly, it should elicit
oohs
and
aahs
from the audience. Getting stuck, it would provoke laughter.

But there was another possibility, a much worse one which would produce neither delight nor laughter. And it was this other possibility that happened next.

With a strange sound, like an axe-stroke, one of the cords holding up the chair snapped. The chair tilted forward and downward. Sir Philip would have fallen out had he not been grasping hold of the arms very tight. Evidently he wasn't strapped in. One of his legs slipped instinctively as if seeking a foothold in space The chair, off balance, started to sway on its three ropes, making his position even more precarious.

There were several gasps and cries from the watchers but no one spoke a word. No one moved an inch.

Where were the Snells? If they were up above, did they even know what was happening? If they could get the ropes running and the chair moving once again, Blake might reach the ground unharmed. But they would have to act quickly.

Then, with a second thunk, a second cord severed. By bad fortune, it was the other of the pair of ropes securing the front part of the chair. The immediate effect was to pitch the occupant violently forward.

His cloak billowing behind him, his arms outstretched, the figure of Truth tumbled head-first from his aerial seat. It was as if he had launched himself into the air, rather than being flung.

It must have taken Blake less than a second to reach the ground but I have known hours pass more quickly. There was a horrible crack, like a walnut being split with a hammer. His imposing cloak – embroidered with suns to signify the dazzling light of Truth – wafted up in the air before falling forward and obscuring the top half of his poor body. He lay still, arms spread wide. After a few moments, blood began to pool from underneath the cloak.

I turned away, feeling sick and cold.

I thought, it might have been Nicholas Revill up there.

Still, no one moved.

Fragments of gold ribbon from the supporting ropes fluttered down on to the stage. The chair, empty but still held up by two cables, creaked backwards and forwards like a giant swing.

Some time went by, it seemed, before a woman screamed from the back of the chamber. I noticed that Lady Jane Black had fallen down in a faint. Her paper-and-wire horn of Plenty had tumbled on the ground beside her. Hope and Resolution stood as if turned to stone.

Then, gingerly, several people moved towards the prone figure even as others were starting to edge away from it. Jonathan Snell the elder emerged from behind the backdrop. His face was ashen, the sawdust standing out lividly in the lines of it. Ben Jonson stepped up on to the stage from the place where he'd been conducting operations. My friend Abel Glaze walked in the direction of the corpse. It occurred to me afterwards that both he and Jonson must have been accustomed to death on the battlefield. Snell got there first. He dropped to his knees by the corpse. The only sound was that of his knees striking the wooden boards.

He reached out his hand to lift the obscuring cloak but I did not see anything more because a cluster of figures now obscured the shape. There was some subdued, broken talk. I moved a little distance off.

This accident was nothing to do with me. Others could take charge.

As if the thoughts inside our heads were running together, Jack Wilson said to me, “There can be no more playing today. There is nothing left here for us. We might as well go.”

“We ought to wait for Master Jonson to dismiss us,” said Laurence Savage.

“He has other things on his mind,” said Jack.

A different kind of bustle now filled the audience chamber. People were scurrying to and fro, as if to make up for their previous immobility, and the room was filling up with grandees and their attendants. Bursts of Spanish exploded from various quarters like volleys. Some of the noble onlookers looked as white and clammy as I felt, but in others there was detectable that taste for disaster which lurks inside quite a few of us.

Before we knew it we were outside in the courtyard of Somerset House. It was a heavy August afternoon. Even so, being out in the air was preferable to being shut up inside a chamber where a death had just occurred. Then we looked at ourselves and realized that we were still wearing our costumes. We could have slunk through the streets as Stubbornness and Fright and Ignorance, I suppose, at the cost of a few jeers. But if Bartholomew Ridd discovered that we'd removed our costumes from the premises we'd be fined, whatever the circumstances. Anyway we had to retrieve our own street clothes.

So we turned round and re-entered the palace and deposited our gear with one of the tire-boys, who was confined in a small antechamber (small by Somerset House standards yet much larger than its counterpart at the Globe). The tire-boy, not having witnessed the accident, seemed eager to examine our stage clothes for any drops of blood spilt by the dead man and, failing any marks of blood, to hear a detailed account of Sir Philip's fatal plunge to earth. Laurence rebuked him for his lack of feeling and Jack promised to tell him more later. I was silent because I'd just seen Master John Ratchett slipping past the open door. I was alerted by a flash of red doublet. He turned his head and caught my eye. What was
he
doing here?

I failed to discover the reason for John Ratchett's presence in Somerset House, but I soon found out that he expected me to work very hard for my next three sovereigns. Events had taken a sombre turn with the death of Sir Philip Blake; now they took a dangerous turn.

Ratchett did not wait for our next assignation in the Pure Waterman tavern on Bankside but accosted me as I was walking into the Strand. I had separated from my companions. The violent death of Sir Philip had put a dampener on our spirits and we had little to talk about. It must be doubtful now whether the
Masque of Peace
would go ahead. I looked round to find Master John Ratchett walking beside me.

He knew everything that had occurred inside Somerset House, he said without preliminary. Good, I thought, you won't require another ‘report'. I can get free of you.

But I knew I was still under an obligation. I'd been paid. Like Judas, I had accepted my thirty pieces of silver. Or my six pieces of gold. Had even spent a portion of them (on Blanche, the French girl in the Mitre).

So, when Master Ratchett went on to suggest that I should look into – that was his phrase, ‘look into' – Blake's death, I experienced a growing sense of unease. It was an accident, I said. What was there to ‘look into'? Anyone could see that those ropes weren't strong enough to sustain the weight of the heavily adorned chair and its occupant. The weakest rope snapped, to be followed by the next weakest, and that was sufficient to send the unfortunate knight plunging to his doom.

“How convenient this death is!” said John Ratchett.

“How so?” I said.

“Convenient because it might well have a disastrous effect on the negotiations with Spain – and that would suit many people,” explained Ratchett as we paced down the Strand.

“But the Spanish party is already in London and the deal is as good as done, isn't it?”

“No treaty is worth the paper it's written on until it's signed and sealed. Sir Philip's sudden death might give the Spaniards second thoughts if they grow suspicious about it.”

“That's not very likely,” I said.

“Or at least it might slow down the process, turn it sour. It is vital to ensure that Sir Philip's demise was as accidental as it appeared. You must investigate, Nicholas.”

“Why me?”

“You were there when it happened. You know your way round the – what do they call it? – the back of the stage. You can ask the right sort of questions.”

“If I refuse?”

“Why should you refuse? You will be paid, rest assured of that. Your reports are already being read with interest.”

“Read by the Privy Council?”

“Who said anything about the Council?”

I stopped in the middle of the street. I almost seized the fellow by his red doublet.

“What's going on here, Master Ratchett?”

He fixed me with his shrewd brown stare.

“Nicholas, you leapt to conclusions. You assumed I worked for the Council.”

“Because you said you did.”

“No,
you
said it. I didn't.”

My brains were too scrambled to think straight. Hadn't Ratchett claimed to work for the Privy Council at our first meeting – or had I put the words into his mouth? I couldn't be sure.

“Then there was all that stuff you spouted about the Council and the cuttlefish.”

“That was no lie, the Council
is
like the cuttlefish, many-armed but with a single head.”

“And going about deliberately confusing friends and enemies with its inky blackness, to say nothing of honest men!”

“Calm down, Nicholas. I have nothing to do with the Council . . .”

“Then I want nothing to do with you!”

“. . . but I am with another, ah, group which has this country's welfare at heart.”

“How do I know that? Why should I believe a word you say?”

“I swear to you that what I'm requesting now is an honest and honourable business. It is simply to delve into the circumstances of Sir Philip's death.”

“And if I say no?”

“You are fond of saying no.”

Very well, I thought. So now I shall say nothing.

I made to walk away.

“You cannot back out now,” said Ratchett softly, creeping up behind my back. “If you do, the Council may well be interested in why you have been writing reports for a certain gentleman in Salisbury Court.”

I turned round.

“A certain gentleman? In Salisbury Court? More obfuscation. Means nothing to me.”

“If you want to find out, you only need to ask, Nicholas. Three days' time at the Pure Waterman. Come to me with some discoveries.”

And with that he strode off, his doublet glowing. I could have strangled the man. If my brains had been scrambled before, now they were buzzing. I was in deep trouble and, like the man in a quaking bog, any attempt to extricate myself was causing me to sink even further down.

I had unwisely consented to report on the
Masque of Peace
preparations for Ratchett in the mistaken belief that he was employed by the Privy Council. I'd been stupid in jumping to conclusions. Very stupid. Now it appeared that he worked for a different ‘group'. For ‘a certain gentleman in Salisbury Court'. This court was situated not far from where Ratchett had left me. It lay beyond Temple Bar and towards the end of Fleet Street, a prosperous enough area even if it was close to the Bridewell house of correction.